


your body (and other works of art)

by stellaviatores



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Body Positivity, Body Worship, Chubby Paul Stamets, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Trans Paul Stamets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 15:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14240661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaviatores/pseuds/stellaviatores
Summary: Paul's stomach is Hugh's favourite part of him. Sometimes Paul agrees, but tonight's not one of those nights.





	your body (and other works of art)

**Author's Note:**

> what can I say except ur welcome

 “You’re so gorgeous,” Hugh whispers, lips trailing across the expanse of Paul’s stomach from sternum to belly button. When he reaches the softest part, the gentle swell beneath his navel, he grins. “Absolutely stunning.”

Without looking up Hugh knows Paul is rolling his eyes. He doesn’t protest anymore, though - small blessings. The first handful of times they did this Paul would push him back and give him a list of reasons why he was wrong. Even if he does have bad days now, at least he’ll take Hugh’s word.

And he has plenty to say about Paul’s belly.

"This is my favourite spot, you know,” he mumbles against the silken skin. It contracts as Paul scoffs. “It is. So soft and pretty and,” Hugh pokes his stomach with his nose, _“generous_.”

"You know that’s not necessarily a good thing, right?” Paul points out. “Does ‘pinch an inch’ ring a bell?”

Hugh scoffs. “Yeah, and that was from - what, the 20th century? You know how backwards they were.” He looks up at Paul, resting his chin on his stomach. “They seriously believed you could detox yourself with tea. _Tea_ , Paul,” he sighs dramatically, “like tea is going to fundamentally alter the way someone’s body metabolises fat. And besides, your last physical showed everything was in working order, and you haven’t complained about headaches since we started having lunch together, so I’d say you’re good.”

Paul’s hands, just idle beside him on their bed, spring up in exasperation. “Can’t you agree with me for once?”

"Not when you’re talking shit about my favourite person and his gorgeous ass,” Hugh says. He presses a brief kiss a the cluster of freckles on Paul’s abdomen, a tiny patch of discolouration Paul always wrinkles his nose at. “You’re _good_ , honey.”

Paul falls silent, staring at a point above Hugh’s head and chewing on his bottom lip. Even after years together, Paul has difficulty taking Hugh’s sentiment to heart; every kindness had to weather the mental gymnastics Paul takes it through as he searched for a hidden meaning, some unkindness to unravel everything. His own routine quite firmly entrenched, Hugh can’t blame him. All he can do is wait, another round of compliments perched on his tongue.

"You’d -” Paul begins, still biting his lips. He takes a short breath, just enough to blurt: “Would you tell me if you wanted me to change? Like, physically? It’s okay,” he adds when Hugh’s eyes grow wide, “I wouldn’t be, you know, upset. I can lose weight if you want. It’s alright.”

Hugh exhales unsteadily. They’ve had this exact conversation a thousand times, but every time Paul says those words - says he’ll put himself through that at the mere hint of Hugh’s displeasure - the same cold, heavy dread makes itself known in his gut. They’ve lived through one relapse. Hugh has the feeling they wouldn’t bounce back so easily from another.

"Paul,” he starts, eyes fixed to his chest. The faintest glimmer of scars shine under Paul’s nipples, twin lines he insisted on keeping after top surgery. They’re unobtrusive, barely even there, but it’s the only thing keeping him calm now. Paul is a survivor. He’s here, scars and all. They’re okay. “I love you.”

"Uh, I love you too?” Paul replies cautiously. “Are you okay?”

"Am I - Christ, Paul, am _I_ okay?” Hugh laughs, a darker sound than he intended. “I should be asking _you._ ”

Paul frowns. “I’m fine, Hugh,” he replies, as casual as if they were discussing the weather. Hugh shuts his eyes and counts to ten, slow and even, until his heart stops aching.

"Paul,” he says again, this time with feeling, “I love you. And I’m saying that because I love _you_ , not whatever version of yourself you’re imagining you can become to fit some idea of what you think I want. I want you -” he swallows, “- and I want you because you are you. It’s like - remember when we first met, and you ordered black coffee even though you hate it because you thought I’d be impressed?”

That drags a chuckle out of Paul. “You were reading Proust,” he says, “what else was I supposed to think?”

"That maybe I’d be attracted to you, vanilla latte and all?”

"Well, you were back then,” Paul looks away, smile dimming. “But I’d get it if you changed your mind. I’m not - you know - anymore.”

“You’re not on the verge of collapsing from hypoglycemia and heart palpitations?”

“I’m not skinny, you asshole,” Paul mutters, “I’m not skinny anymore and I’m giving you a get-out-of-jail-free card if you’re too fucking polite to say something.” And here it is: Paul pushing Hugh from his position and curling into a ball, his cheeks mottled red and white with humiliation.

Except this time, Hugh’s not going to let him sulk. He scrambles across the bed and swings a leg over Paul’s body, effectively trapping him in a straddle. “Oh, no you don’t,” he says, shaking Paul’s hunched shoulder. “None of that, mister. Look at me. Come on,” he wheedles, “ _look at me_ , Paul.”

“Fuck off,” Paul eloquently replies, muffled against the blanket he’s thrust his face into.

"Nope,” Hugh insists, wriggling his hips. “Not until you look at me.”

Paul groans. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

“Pot meet kettle, babe. I’m not going anywhere.”

Another pause. And then: “You’re not.”

It’s not a question. Hugh nods, then realises Paul can’t see his face, so he tugs on his arm ‘til he turns over. Paul is still flushed, eyes narrowed and skeptical, but there’s a touch of cheek to the way he quirks his lips. “You’re not,” he repeats to himself, slow and careful. “You’re really weird, you know that?”

Hugh’s face breaks into a grin. “So are you.”

“You’re the one jerking off over this.” Paul pokes his stomach derisively for emphasis, hard enough to leave an imprint of his finger. Hugh chases it with his teeth and bites down before it disappears completely, startling a squeak from Paul.

“I sure am,” Hugh says and grinds his hips down further. Paul, still caught somewhere between embarrassment and affection, blushes brilliantly. It’s the most beautiful thing Hugh has ever seen - and Hugh has witnessed some truly magnificent things in his thirty-something years. It’s just Paul, rosy and warm beneath his fingertips, that takes his breath away each and every morning.

He bites harder, stealing Paul’s breath too, and laves at the blooming bruise with his tongue. Paul moans and scrambles to lace his fingers behind Hugh’s neck, holding him in place while he rolls himself over completely. Hugh, now properly straddling his hips, smirks.

"This okay?” he asks. Paul falters and glances down at the hickey on his belly.

“I guess?”

Hugh leans back on his heels, the heat receding from his cheeks almost immediately. “‘I guess’ isn’t ‘yes’, sweetheart.” He swipes a thumb over Paul’s pulse point; his heart rate is up, uncomfortably so. “Do you want me to leave, or -?”

“No!” Paul sits upright, almost toppling them both over with the force. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.” He twines his fingers around Hugh’s spare hand and squeezes. “Stay? Please?”

 Something inside Hugh melts. “Of course,” he whispers, drawing Paul close to his chest. Paul exhales, a little unsteady, and buries his face into Hugh’s shoulder.

 "‘m sorry.”

"Hey, hey, none of that,” Hugh hushes. He spreads a hand across stretch of Paul’s shoulders, rubbing slow, measured circles around the top of his spine. Tracing the bump of his cervical curve, Hugh calms himself with the reassurance that his vertebrae aren’t painfully prominent anymore.

"Maybe - shit, I don’t know,” Paul shakes his head, “Can we try later? When I’m not being an idiot?”

Hugh threads a hand through Paul’s hair, his fingertips massaging his scalp. Paul softens immediately and relaxes against Hugh’s chest, his own fingers playing with the sheets. “That might take a while, honey,” he says lightly, “You’re always an idiot.”

“ _Your_ idiot,” Paul mumbles back.

Hugh hums. “My idiot.” He presses a kiss to Paul’s crown. “It’s okay, Paul, really. I’m right here.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Hugh worries that Paul’s retreated into himself again - but then comes a long, exasperated sigh. “Don’t you get tired of being so nice all the time?”

Hugh lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Not when it comes to you,” he replies, dropping his hand from Paul’s hair.

Paul leans back and fixes Hugh with a patented derisive look, which might work on a wet-behind-the-ears lab assistant, but does absolutely nothing to Hugh. Instead he tips Paul’s head back with two fingers to his chin, stares at his husband’s parted lips for a moment, and dips down to capture them in a proper deep kiss. There’s a lot he wants to say in that kiss - _I love you, you’re beautiful, I wish I could fight the parts of you that believe otherwise_ \- and when Paul licks his mouth open in turn, he thinks that maybe Paul is starting to listen.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://stellaviatorii.tumblr.com)


End file.
